“There’s been an all-service emergency shout, boss. I got the call from control a few minutes ago.”
“What emergency? Come on man. Spit it out.” Jones couldn’t avoid shouting.
“There’s been an explosion … Alex’s house. About twenty-five minutes ago. I’m on my way there now. I … Hang on, coming up to traffic lights.” Ryan turned on his two-tone siren. The deafening noise made Jones snatch the mobile away from his ear.
Alex? Oh no. Please no.
“What about Alex? Are there any casualties?” Jones yelled.
The siren cut out.
“The Fire Services call log says, ‘persons reported’, and you know what that means …” Ryan’s words caught in throat. “More than one casualty … Jesus, boss. Alex … and Julie?”
Jones’ hands shook and he closed his eyes to concentrate.
“Ryan. Take it easy. We know nothing for certain … yet.”
Sweet Jesus, what have I done?
“I’m … fine, sir.” Ryan sniffed. “Be at the scene in ten minutes. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”
Jones closed the phone and stared at the mute black and grey casing with hatred, but the phone wasn’t responsible for the news it delivered. Responsibility belonged elsewhere. Jones wasn’t naive enough to discount the possibility of coincidence. Flukes happened all the time in life, but an explosion, tonight of all nights, could not be chance.
Has to be that fucking arse-wipe, Jenkins.
If Alex was dead, it was as much Jones’ fault as it was Jenkins’. And now Jones might have Julie Harris on his conscience too. Julie, the exact opposite to the athletically built Alex—a petite brunette with a ready laugh and an eye for a good photograph—had always been friendly, welcoming. Now she was gone, they were both ….
Jones listened to the sounds around him radiating through the intermittent patches of light and dark. What could he do stuck in the middle of nowhere?
The phone chirruped again. Dazed, he answered without checking the ID. “Jones here.” His voice only just made it past the sob he couldn’t stifle.
“Boss? It’s Alex. I am near the hospital.”
Blood drained from his head. He slumped against the wall.
“Alex?” he gasped, “is that really you?”
“Yes, boss. You sound strange, what is wrong?”
Jones couldn’t stand still. He dragged a hand through his hair and returned to pacing the courtyard. He tried to sound calm when he wanted to scream with relief and joy. “Have you been home?”
“Yes. Julie and I were … occupied when you called. I could not reach the telephone in time. Every time I tried to call you, your phone was busy. You have not turned on your call waiting option.”
“My what? … Never mind. Where are you?”
“Turning into the hospital car park.”
Jones ran a quick calculation. Alex’s house was no more than half an hour from the hospital at this time of night. She must have left home a few minutes before the explosion.
Julie?
Jones made a desperate grab at a passing straw. “Is Julie with you?”
“Of course not, I am on duty. She is at home in bed. Why? What is wrong?” A discordant tone of worry coloured her words. Jones heart lurched.
“Alex,” he tried to sound calm, authoritative. “Stop the car as soon as it’s safe.”
“Boss? You are worrying me.”
Jones waited. “Are you parked yet?”
“One moment … Yes. Okay, what is wrong?”
“Pull the handbrake up and turn off the engine.”
“Boss, what has happened?” Her words tumbled out, the voice raised in pitch, filled with fear. She sensed something and not being in the car with her to offer comfort tore Jones apart.
“Alex, I … don’t know how to say … I have some bad …”
The sound of Alex’s cries of anguish after he delivered the news would live with him forever. Jones couldn’t stop her racing home. He prayed she’d be safe to drive. The first responders, fire, police, and paramedics, would all be all over the scene by now. They would take care of her.
With the dregs of his mobile battery, he called Ryan to prepare him for Alex’s arrival. He took the news with a mixture of elation and sympathy.
“I’ll look after her, boss,” said Ryan. “Jesus, she’s alive. Thank fuck …”
The rest of his words were lost as Jones closed the phone and sank to his knees.
For fifteen minutes, Jones prowled the courtyard with half a baguette and a mug of cold coffee in one hand, and his dying phone in the other. He couldn’t think of anything to do but pace, and worry. Things were moving inexorably beyond his control. He hated being so helpless, but what could he do?
His phone bleeped again. This time he checked the display screen.
“Giles? Thank God. Tell me everything’s okay?”
“No David. It’s a bloody disaster.”
David Jones stopped pacing. The plastic cup hit the concrete slab and bounced. Black coffee exploded from the spinning lip and might have passed for blood-spatter in the dim evening light.
Jenkins rubbed his hands together and turned to face Hammer, who drove the ambulance—sirens blaring and blue lights flashing—with the skill of a rally driver. “I have tae hand it to ye. Man, that was brilliant, but I nearly wet massel’ when the alarm went off.” He considered patting the man on the shoulder, or the knee, but remembered the ex-soldier’s tattoo. “In and out, like a pickpocket in a crowd. You’ve earned yourself a big bonus tonight, my friend.”
Hammer turned cold, dark eyes on Jenkins. A shudder rippled down his disintegrating spine.
“Get this,” said Hammer. “We aren’t friends.” He jerked a thumb to the back where Hollie lay strapped to a gurney. “Don’t know what you want with her, and I don’t care, but I’m taking you where you wanted as arranged and then I’m off.” He turned eyes-front again and added. “I took on this job ‘cause the money was right, and completed it ‘cause I always fulfil a contract. That’s it. I’m done.”
“Really? I was hoping you’d join my operation in a more permanent role. There are fringe benefits.” Jenkins jerked his head towards Hollie who hadn’t stirred since they’d transferred her from the wheelchair.
Hammer’s mouth thinned into a gash. His eyes drilled right through Jenkins. “Not interested.”
“Are you sure? I can offer big money to a man with your particular talents.”
Hammer snapped off the blues-and-twos, and eased his foot off the accelerator pedal. “How much money?”
26
Late Friday evening - Graves
Time since Flynn’s death: eleven-hours, twenty minutes
When Giles described the scene in Hollie’s hospital room, the murdered constables, and the doctor in the lift, Jones’ world collapsed for the second time that night. How much more bad news would he have to endure? If he’d been alone he might have screamed and ranted, but he would never allow himself to show such emotion with strangers close by.
The doubts and self-recriminations remained.
He’d been so damned clever. Ridden to the bloody rescue on a white horse and saved the day like the US sodding Cavalry. But his efforts had only given Hollie a few hours reprieve. Now here he was, stuck in rural, isolated Brittany until morning with Julie Harris dead, Hollie Jardine missing, and no opportunity to help.
Siân, help get me through this.
He checked the time—eleven-twenty. That meant twelve-twenty French time, as he hadn’t reset his watch. The next flight didn’t leave Brest for another seven hours.
All that time wasted. What was he going to do?
Giles’ concise, commanding voice cut through his thoughts. “I’ve locked down the hospital.”
“Sorry, Giles. Repeat that.”
“When I reached the room, Hollie’s bed was cold, so they’d been gone a good few minutes. And get this. As it’s a private ward, there aren’t any bloody surveillance cameras up her
e, so no identification. Christ, David, security here’s a bloody joke. Jenkins and his accomplice might have walked out the front doors.” Giles grunted. “The place is on lockdown now and I’m organising a floor-by-floor search. If she’s still here, I’ll find her, but it’ll take time—”
“Do you have anyone looking at the hospital surveillance tapes?”
“Not yet. I was going to call Ryan Washington.”
“Hell, you mean you haven’t heard?” Jones scratched his head. “No, no, of course you haven’t.”
Jones could not believe how matter-of-fact he sounded when he relayed the news, callous even, but his training took over. He’d make time to mourn later.
“Jesus Christ,” Giles whispered. “Arson?”
“I’d bet my pension on it.”
If I still have one after this fiasco.
“I don’t know what to say. Is there anything I can do?”
“Keep searching for Jenkins and whoever’s working with him.”
“Jenkins can’t be his real name, can it?”
“Doubt it.” Jones clutched at another straw. “You’ve never come across anyone called, John Jenkins, or Jonathan C Jenkins on your travels, I suppose? The name’s been bugging me ever since we learned it.”
Giles paused for a moment. “Sorry, David. No.”
“No reason why you should. As for the surveillance tapes, call in someone from the night shift. Even Duggie Peyton won’t sit on his hands after this.” He paused for thought before things could get away from him again. “Call on Phil Cryer for help, but nothing hands on. I don’t want him anywhere near the action. He can access the PNC from home—assuming the bloody thing’s working again—and anything else online. He’s great with the IT stuff, but make sure you do it on the QT. I don’t want Peyton or the brass finding out. Phil’s not insured for active police work. Draft in all the warm bodies you can find. I want the whole bloody force involved in the search.”
At least those who aren’t investigating the explosion.
Jones’ thoughts raced. He had forgotten something.
“What about Hollie’s parents?”
“The Jardines are unharmed, but the mother collapsed. The doctor’s admitted her for shock. Frank Jardine’s bearing up. Doesn’t look it, but he’s a strong one. As for the PC’s Johansson and Brown … Christ, never seen anything like it. Whoever killed them knew their stuff. Took them both out like a fucking ninja. Didn’t stand a chance. Especially the lass. David, it was bloody horrible. Wait ‘til I catch the bastard.”
“Couldn’t have been Jenkins,” Jones said, thinking aloud. “He’s damn near disabled. Wasn’t able to pick up and carry a little old lady. I’m guessing he drafted in some muscle.”
“That’s what I thought. Whoever he is, the guy’s a pro. The way he took down Johansson and the doctor in the lift suggests ex-military, possibly special forces.” Giles paused again. Jones heard alarms in the background. Giles must have opened a door and entered a different part of the hospital.
“Who going to notify the next of kin? Not bloody Peyton, surely?”
“Nah, the Force Welfare Officer is doing that now old Duggie’s tucked his head under the parapet. The bugger knows he should have listened to you.” Giles paused for a moment before continuing. “One good thing. There’s no blood on the bed, so Hollie might still be alive.”
“Of course she’s alive. Jenkins has something horrible planned, and it’ll be a lot worse than what he did to the others—slower. Why else would he risk kidnapping Hollie a second time?” asked Jones, thinking aloud again.
“David, unless there’s something else …” Giles sounded distracted. “I need to supervise the search.”
Jones ended the call and stood in the centre of a bustling crime scene, but felt very much alone.
Multiple generators fed power to electrical equipment. A dozen halogen lamps on tripod stands illuminated large areas in various parts of the farm. Jean-Luc and Captain Assante marshalled their men like twin conductors at the head of the same orchestra, but without competing. Gendarmes in dark one-piece uniforms, and SOCOs in white, scurried to their duties. Some carried boxes of electronic equipment, others digging tools.
In the meadow between the perimeter wall and the cottage, a woman wearing a set of oversized headphones pushed a wheeled trolley containing ground-penetrating radar. She worked slowly. Jones calculated it would take most of the night to cover the whole field.
A powerful looking man in a white one-piece operated a second, lighter radar unit in the woods. He surveyed the open spaces between the trees.
David Jones had never felt so helpless in his life. If he thought that praying would do any good, he’d have dropped to his knees in the middle of the courtyard, but he’d given up believing in God decades ago, at the end of a long, hot summer in Wales.
As the minutes ticked by, Jones’ desperation increased. He’d hit a complete dead end.
He paced the patches of dark, made gloomier by his mood and by the counterpoints of brilliant glare thrown by the powerful lights, and rolled through the information he had. There was precious little.
Ellis Flynn and his father Edward were both dead.
They’d found no close relatives of the Flynns left alive, and Ellis had no known associates. The other suspects on the Sex Offenders list had all been traced, interviewed, and eliminated as suspects, at least in this particular crime. The cupboard on that front was bare.
They had a miserable, useless photo of Jenkins, and a sketchy description. What about that damned limp? Jones had only assumed the man’s fragility because of the way he’d left Madame Deauville. Perhaps Jenkins simply killed the woman and left the scene in a panic. Was the walking stick a prop?
Christ, what a mess.
And the biggest question of all?
Why?
Why did Jenkins take the enormous risk of recapturing Hollie? With little to link him with the killings, Jenkins might have faded away and set up his repulsive operation somewhere else. In fact, he still might. What was so special about Hollie Jardine? Why risk everything to take her again?
Rage? Bloody-mindedness? The psychological need to finish what he’d started? What drove an animal like that to risk everything and plot against Hollie?
Jones scratched and picked and worried away at the information, but came up with nothing. A psychiatrist or a psychologist might suggest a motivation. Maybe Jenkins had a deep-seated need to demonstrate his power over young women because of his physical infirmity. Maybe he’d been mistreated by an older sister or by his mother. Maybe he’d been bottle-fed. Maybe the bastard had been bullied by a large-breasted teacher. On the other hand, maybe there was no real reason. Perhaps Jenkins was nothing more than an evil shit with no motivation other than simple bloodlust.
Bollocks to the psychologists.
Jones treated the dark arts of the unconscious mind with the same scepticism and suspicion as he treated mediums, gypsy fortune-tellers, and astrologists. Their words were little more than guesswork and bullshit.
John C Jenkins, or whatever his real name was, orchestrated the torture and death of young girls for nothing more than the entertainment of others, and for profit. He sliced open the throat of a sixty-year-old woman and tossed her in a ditch like a piece of litter.
Hollie Jardine was back in the hands of the amoral, vindictive sociopath to whom life meant nothing, and Jones couldn’t do a thing about it.
He wanted, no, needed to scream.
It didn’t take Jones long to pass the news to Jean-Luc, who took it better than he had.
“I am so sorry, David. I do not know what to say, or do.”
“That makes two of us.”
Jean-Luc smoothed his moustache with both hands and stared into the distance. Jones could almost hear the cogs in the colonel’s mind spinning. In Jean-Luc’s place he’d be wondering what sort of useless moron would allow a recently rescued girl to be abducted a second time. The Frenchman had a point. Jones should h
ave seen it coming. He’d been so cock-sure he’d saved the day, that he’d let his guard down, and Hollie was the one paying the price. Hollie and the two uniformed officers.
Siân, what have I done?
A yell from the woods behind the barn made them both turn, and took part of Jones’ attention away from his self-recriminating fug. He followed Jean-Luc along the well-worn path to the barn. Someone had placed a pair of planks across the stream to form a bridge. On the other side of the water, a few metres inside the treeline, a bright light shone from a yellow tripod stand. Dark tree trunks and the outline of bushes interrupted the beam and gave the scene an otherworldly, backlit glow.
Two SOCOs knelt and scraped at the ground with what looked like bricklayer’s trowels. Two others replicated the activity six metres to their left. A gendarme stood to one side, filming their work.
“What is it?” Jones followed Jean-Luc across the makeshift bridge, which groaned under their combined weight. Jones’ mind turned back a few months to a flat roof, which bounced underfoot, collapsed, and put Phil Cryer in a hospital bed for six weeks. He blanched at the memory. So much hurt, he could barely stand it.
“The radar indicates a shallow grave and human remains,” Jean-Luc answered after speaking to his man. “It shows at least four bodies buried in this clearing.”
Jones and Jean-Luc stood over the grave and watched the progress in silence until Sergeant Brunö interrupted their vigil when he rushed towards them with a phone in his outstretched hand. He was as pale as his swarthy complexion would allow. Jones was surprised. Who would have thought the coolly efficient, monosyllabic sergeant capable of registering discomfort?
Instead of handing the phone to Jean-Luc, Brunö passed it to Jones. “It’s for you, Chief Inspector.”
“You speak English?”
And with an American accent.
“Of course, sir, but you have to take this. It’s the putain, Jenkins!”
27
Late Friday evening - Ultimatum
Dead and Gone Page 279
